


hope from every small disaster

by stelleappese



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, and nothing else I guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 12:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11463834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelleappese/pseuds/stelleappese
Summary: Charlie arrives in Havana.





	hope from every small disaster

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like Meyer needed a love letter, however small. What can I say :P

“Welcome to Havana,” the man says. He's around Charlie's height, olive-skinned, wearing a big pair of sunglasses.  
Charlie looks at him, still holding his bag. He _could_  thank him and make small talk. He could be polite to a guy who's probably been waiting for him under the scolding sun for a while, now.  
But it's been too fucking long, and what comes out of his mouth is: “Where's Meyer?”

The last time he saw him, he was about to leave for Italy. Most of their friends were either drunk of busy being entertained by pretty young women (or both), so they didn't pay attention to the fact Charlie and Meyer had disappeared behind a closed door.

Not that anything happened. They both tried to avoid stating the obvious, they talked about business, about what Meyer would need to do once Charlie was out of the picture, or at least far enough for people to get bold.

He should have kissed him, Charlie thinks, as the man leads him to the car. He would have, had he realized how slowly time would crawl on between that day and, well, now.

“How long 'till we get there?” Charlie asks, sitting down and unbuttoning his jacket.  
“It's not that far,” the man answers.  
Charlie rolls down the window and sighs. He's exhausted, his head's throbbing, his bones ache. The bright forget-me-not sky hurts his eyes, so he closes them and lets the breeze caress his face.

There was a warm breeze the day he kissed Meyer for the first time, too.  
It made the sheets hung to dry on the roof of Meyer's building balloon slowly, like stretching ghosts. He remembers the smell of the lemons the women would plop into the water when washing clothes. Meyer's hands on his waist. The ringing in his ears.

He opens his eyes just a bit, looks at the colorful cars go by, thinks he's old enough to admit he's weak like that: he was never made to be apart from Meyer, was he?

Not that that's new to him. He was eighteen when he first went to jail and realized that of all the things he loved, more than his family, more than New York, more than freedom, Meyer was what he missed the most.

He'd sent Charlie a letter, Meyer; back when he was still Sal, and little Meyer had found himself in charge. He'd asked Mr Goodman to give it to him when he visited. Thirty-four words, four sentences. It wasn't that remarkable, really. It just told Charlie not to be stupid, and that Meyer would take care of things until he got out. But Charlie knew it by heart in a matter of hours, slept with it under his pillow.

“What's he told you to do?” he asks, “You supposed to drive me home, or what?”  
“El Señor Lansky is waiting for you at his house,” the man says.  
“So we're going there straight away?”  
“Yes.”  
“All right,” Charlie mutters.

The _second_  time he went to jail he'd read books Meyer had told him about, and tried to find even the smallest part of him inside them.  
Sure, Meyer visited from time to time, to keep Charlie up to date, to ask for orders and counsel. But even though they had more privacy than other inmates, he still couldn't just reach out and touch him...

The car stops for a moment, and Charlie looks at a group of children as they play, laughing and screeching loudly. It's just a fraction of a second, then the car starts again and they disappear from sight.

When exactly did it happen? When did Meyer become such a fundamental part of his life, Charlie almost physically hurts when he's not around?

Was it the first time he beat someone to a bloody pulp just because they'd insulted Charlie?  
Was it when he took control of their business while Charlie was in jail, but refused to try and overthrow him?  
Or was it before that?  
Was it the moment he'd looked Charlie in the eye and told him to fuck off, that he would not let anybody step over him?

The car finally slows to a halt. The driver waves at someone, and the gate in front of them opens up. Everything around them is green; the neatly trimmed grass, the big trees. Gravel crackles underneath the tyres. The house is of a stark white, almost blinding in the sun.  
When Charlie walks out of the car, he lingers for a moment. Birds hop on the edge of a small, pristine fountain; water gugles lazily out of it, glittering in the sunlight.

He thinks about being a skinny twenty years old with bloody knuckles, about the way Meyer's body felt pressed to his as he pushed him against a wall, the way Meyer tugged at Charlie's hair and bit at his lips, legs wrapped around Charlie's waist.  
It was raining, then; a violent, relentless rain that drowned away every other sound apart from the thumping of Charlie's heart.

“Señor Luciano?”  
The man is waiting for him on the steps. Charlie blinks at him, lost for a second, then follows him.

There are all these images in his head.

He and Meyer sharing sweets in a back alley. The way Meyer's eyes looked when he killed a man, like bottomless abysses; and the way they looked when he'd just woken up, placid and warm. Meyer counting money in their first hideout, the weak winter light raining on him from a broken window. Meyer curled up and reading on the fire escape in a blistering hot summer day, waiting for him. The way the nape of Meyer's neck looked as he folded sheets on the rooftop, that day many years ago, after Charlie emerged from the sea of linens behind him.

But it all stops when he walks into a room and Meyer looks up at him, leaving whatever he was telling the two men sitting with him unfinished.

They look at each other for a heartbeat, both completely silent. Meyer slowly stands up.

“We will finish this conversation over dinner,” he says, tearing his eyes away from Charlie and looking at his guests. Charlie remotely hears the man who drove him there guide the guests outside, but Meyer is _there_ , he's tangible, he's not some shadow inside Charlie's head.  
What else could possibly be more important than that?

Meyer gives him a look and moves away, and Charlie feels himself follow before he's even aware he meant to do it. The room he's lead into is another, smaller, living-room. Sun pours in from the arched veranda. Charlie almost flinches when the door clicks closed.

“You're late,” Meyer says, softly.  
“Couldn't wait to see me, uh?” grins Charlie.  
“I think it's safe to say we have both waited long enough.” Meyer answers.  
Charlie walks closer to Meyer. He rests a hand against the back of his neck, presses their foreheads together. He closes his eyes, and the sigh that follows tastes of relief.  
“Let's waste no time, then.” Charlie whispers, as Meyer's fingers sink into his hair.

 


End file.
